Morning Person
by randomlvr1
Summary: Lady Destiny was a cruel woman indeed. She'd kick you out of bed at four A.M., cause the break down of your coffee maker, and rob you of your muse, all just to meet a Britboy with particularly large eyebrows. AU


_**Title:** Morning Person  
**Characters/Pairings:** USXUK, with cameos of other nations  
**Rating/Warnings:** K+; AU and mildly crackish . . .  
**Summary:** Lady Destiny was a cruel woman indeed. She'd kick you out of bed at four A.M., cause the break down of your coffee maker, and rob you of your muse, all just to meet a Britboy with particularly large eyebrows. AU  
**Notes:** Another USXUK! :D I know I shouldn't be working on this, but this plot bunny was demanding to be written (and you do not defy the plot bunnies), so I typed it up in a couple of hours. So, hope you like it (and beware of my midnight typos)~! X3_

**_Oh, and go vote in my poll~! Please! :D_**

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Alfred F. Jones _detested_ mornings. The only thing he could hate more was _waking up_ in the morning (that and vegan food). He just wasn't a very avid morning riser - most days, he'd wake up after noon and fall asleep after midnight.

But, for reasons that were beyond the American's understanding, he woke up at four A.M. with a full bladder, and wasn't been able to reclaim unconsciousness again, even after relieving himself. And, what was worse, he staggered into his kitchen to discover that his coffee maker was refusing to cooperate with him, deciding that today was the perfect day to begin spewing out black sludge instead of the aromic nectar that Alfred _lived _upon (maybe his coffee maker wasn't a morning riser either, he dazedly considered). Falling to his knees, the blond American beat the ground and demanded that the god screwing with his life show his sorry ass to Alfred so that he could punch his face in.

No such miracle happened.

Half an hour later, he was able to collect enough of the sense he had at five in the morning to throw on semi-decent clothes, grab his car keys, and drive to the nearest McDonald's to retrieve a fresh hamburger and caffeine pumped coffee. As he munched on his breakfast in the parking lot, he spied a large park across the street and decided that he wouldn't put his entire morning to waste. Tossing his trash into the back seat, Alfred grabbed his sketchbook and camera, and walked leisurely across the empty street to the tranquil greenery.

The first thing that caught his attention (or whatever was left of it at this time in the morning, hyped up on artificial caffeine) was a small group of Asians, relaxing around a set of picnic tables. The eldest of them, still looking about Alfred's age, seemed to be trying to lead the other four in a set of tai chi exercises, but only the youngest boy seemed to actually doing them. One boy - the one with a mischievous grin and a glint in his eyes - was trying to shimmy a tree, while the other male in the group was sitting Indian style on a patch of grass, meditating. The only girl in the group seemed to dancing with a pair of fans to the tune of a melody only she could hear.

Intrigued, the American artist pulled out a pencil and his sketchpad, quickly and meticulously copying down the different poses of the group, giving special attention to the eldest's exasperated but still fond expression. Satisfied with his sketches, he flipped the pad closed and continued his lazy journey into the sprawling park.

The rest of the morning was burned away in the same fashion, his sketchbook being nearly completely filled by the end of his walk. But a handful of encounters stuck out in his mind - bickering brothers that seemed to be arguing over a bowl of pasta in rapid Italian while a German and Spaniard watched them dotingly; a large, daunting fellow wearing an innocent smile and long scarf as he fed baby ducks bread crumbs; a long haired blond that trailed a large walking group, occasionally trying to assert himself in the conversation, and always getting pushed to the side (Alfred, feeling sympathetic for this stranger, flashed an encouraging smile and thumbs-up as he walked by, which made the meek blond respond with his own grateful smile); an albino man attempting to climb to the top of a bathroom with a cocky grin as the girl he was trying to impress walked away cooly, arm-in-arm with an aristocratic brunette; and a blond male walking with his brunette friend he tried to snap a candid photo of, only to be reprimanded in a rapid-fire of 'Like, that totally wasn't cool!'s and 'That totally wasn't, like, my good side!'s as his saner friend tried to calm him down (interestingly enough, the blond quickly stormed over the nearest bathroom, reappearing seconds later in a school girl uniform and then giving Alfred the permission to snap as many photos as he wanted, which, of course, he did).

All in all, a very fulfilling and useful morning (a phrase Alfred thought he'd ever hear himself agreeing to). But it seemed as if a sleepless night and the physical extersion were starting to catch up on him, and he managed to drag his feet to a bench before collapsing. Alfred removed his glasses, bringing them to the hem of his hoodie and wiping the clean, as he considered the possibility of waking up early again to catch this time of day again. Maybe mornings weren't as bad as he originally assumed they were. Maybe, one of these mornings, he would be able to find his lost muse and complete the project he'd been working on. Maybe-

Suddenly, a blur of khaki passed by his peripheral vision and Alfred, never one to doubt his instincts, replaced his glasses and looked up to find one of the most curious sights of that morning - a sandy-haired male jogging on the path . . . in a pair of black slacks, a crisp white dress shirt, and argyle sweater vest.

The blond American was fascinated by this spectacle. No, that was understating it - Alfred had to bite down on his lower lip to stop the hysterical laughter bubbling in his throat as he snatched up his sketchpad and camera and pursued the jogger in a sudden burst of energy.

Alfred raised his camera skillfully, adjusting the zoom and angle deftly, and was about to snap a picture of the amazing sight when he remembered the incident with the other blond he had earlier that morning. Not wanting a troubling repeat, he lowered the camera and ran after the man without much further thought.

"Yo! Excuse me!" the American shouted, hoping that the sandy-haired man would eventually turn toward the sound. "Hey!"

Finally realizing that someone was trying to speak to him, the jogger stopped and turned around slowly, revealing his forest green eyes - and Alfred had to bite his lip roughly as another powerful wave of laughter rolled over him - and outrageously thick eyebrows that looked more like caterpillars than much else. The Briton blinked twice, quizzically, at the red-faced blond running up to him with a sketchbook and camera before speaking up in - and Alfred could _not_ believe it could get any better - a flawless British accent. "Yes? What is it, lad?"

Alfred wasn't sure how he was going to open his mouth without spewing forward the laughter he had been so careful in holding back, but he was awesome, and awesome people found some way to accomplish seemingly impossible feats. "I-I . . .*cough* C-can I take your picture?"

Alfred found absolutely nothing wrong or strange about his request, but it seemed as if the Briton begged to differ - his expression seemed to be one of of incredulity, embarrassment, and anger, and his face switched between them, opening and closing his mouth soundlessly, before finally settling on anger. "_Excuse me?_"

Now Alfred was confused - had he not made himself clear enough? Or were the British really so stuck up their own asses that they couldn't understand American English? The American artist decided it was just safest to repeat his request, extremely slowly, in hopes of getting the message across to the other blond. "You heard me - _can I take your picture?_" He tried emphasizing the words and changing the vowel sounds around to make it sound more British, but it seemed as if the man still didn't understand him.

"I know what you said, you bloody twat!" the jogger snapped, ignoring the confusion that settled onto the American's face at the word 'twat'. "_Why_ in the bloody hell would you want to take my picture? Are you French or something?"

Alfred blinked at the accusation (or did he mean it as a compliment?), undeterred. "No - I'm not French. I'm all-American!" he corrected with a sparkling grin, not even hearing the '_Figures_,' that was breathed under the Briton's breath. "And I thought you looked really interesting, so I wanted to take your picture. I'm an artist/photographer/author, and I draw inspiration from these kinds of things. So, can I?"

"It's '_May I?_', you uneducated twat," he muttered and his eyes narrowed in distaste as he eyed the sloppy clothes on the American. "And, no, you may not take my picture."

The jogger turned away, ready to leave the discussion at that, when the American ran ahead of him, facing him with a pouty expression as he jogged backwards. "Why not~? It's just one picture."

"Bloody hell!" the man exclaimed, turning around in the other direction, only to have the annoying American follow his movements. "If it's just one picture, then why do _you_ care so much about it?"

"I told you - because I think you're really interesting!" Alfred enthused, biting back another wave of hysterical laughter and, rather, occupying himself by starting up his camera. "So, how 'bout it?"

The stranger groaned, stopping entirely and running an agitated hand through his messy locks, as he gave the American an incredulous look. Alfred's smile never faltered. Realizing that he wouldn't be able to loose the wacko without giving into his request, the Briton finally caved. "Fine - if you insist - but just leave me alone afterwards, is that clear?"

Nodding exuberantly, Alfred raised his camera and quickly captured a photo of the unsuspecting British man. Frowning, the Briton turned away, finally relieved of the irritating American, but he hadn't taken three steps when Alfred reappeared with an excited gleam in his eyes. "So, what's your name~?"

"I thought I told you to go the bloody hell away!" the man shouted, earning a few questioning glances from other park attendees.

"Don't need to make a scene, Britboy," Alfred pouted. "My name's Alfred F. Jones."

"I don't bloody care~!" the other blond sang, sticking fingers into his ear in an attempt to block out the man's grating voice.

Eventually (and with a _lot_ of help from his 'American charm'), Alfred manages to squeeze a name out of the of the British man and convince him to take a break on a bench with him - though, Alfred must admit that it had been the loudest and most drawn-out conversation he'd ever participated in, with much resistance and sarcasm on the Briton's part. Considering all that, Alfred still managed to find Arthur (such a proper and _British_ name, he had remarked) absolutely fascinating.

"So, why're you in the states, Artie?" Alfred asked, scrolling through the candid shots he managed to capture of Arthur during their conversation, much to the Briton's displeasure.

"The company I work for sent me here for a convention that lasts for _two weeks_," Arther replied, emphasizing 'two weeks' as if it were some kind of contagious disease that one would die immediately from. "I can't wait to get this bloody convention over with to get back to London . . . but I kind of prefer the weather here - it's something other than rain, fog, and rain."

Alfred leaned back on the bench, his camera laying abandoned on his lap, as he studied the flawless azure expanse and bright sun with a kind of fondness. "I like it here, too. I used to live in the South when I was a little kid, but I moved here right after I got out of the house and I _love _it. It was too humid back there . . . "

The sandy-blond grunted in acknowledgement, eyeing the sky himself. " . . . Wait! Why the bloody hell am I telling _you_ this?! I barely know you!"

The American shrugged from his spot, his smile only widening further. "I dunno. I guess I'm just easy to talk to."

"I think you're just manipulating me," Arthur rebutted, getting up from his seat with sharp movements. "So, please excuse me if I've wasted enough of my time being used by a complete stranger. Good day."

"Hey~! Don't leave!" Alfred pleaded, pouncing on his new acquaintance without much consideration. Alfred was the type of person that never let go once you gave him the leverage, and it would have been completely unawesome of him if he didn't uphold that reputation. "We're buddies now!"

"Get off me you bloody wanker!" the Briton cried furiously as he tried, futilely, to shake the American off his shoulders. "We _are not_ buddies, and I will be quick to put down any delusions you may have that we are!"

"Aw, Artie~!" Alfred pouted, loosening his grip on the other man in favor of clutching his wounded heart. "That really hurt . . . but can I ask you one more question then?"

"No!" Arthur stormed away, feeling that he had been suffitiently humiliated for the day.

Unperturbed, Alfred ran up by his side, skipping like an ignorant child. "So, are you queer or somethin'?"

"WHA-" the shorter man managed to yell before gracefully choking on his own spit. The American patted him on the back helpfully as Arthur attempted to cough the liquid out of his lungs. "W-what kind of question is that, you wanker?! Don't you have any sense of decency or shame?!"

"So you are?" Alfred confirmed, his eyebrows shooting up to his hairline. "W-o-w, I-"

"No! I'm not queer!" Arthur incredulated, his hands flying up unnecessarily. "Why would you think that-"

And, in an act of pure arbitrariness that only an American (and a French) could manage, he smashed his lips against the unsuspecting Briton's, snapping a picture with his camera in the same moment. He pulled back almost immediately, leaving odd flutters in both of their stomachs that neither of them would admit existed. Before Arthur could organize enough of his scrambled mind to send Alfred across the pond and back with a fervent tirade, the American held up the camera with a wink, finally turning around and waving a farewell hand over his shoulder.

"Bye Artie~! See ya tomorrow!" Alfred shouted over his shoulder, giving the flustered Brition one, last blinding smile.

By the time Arthur had fully recovered, he could only watch as Alfred drove away in an old, red Mustang, leaving the Briton to stand in the park like a flabbergasted idiot. Infuriated and humiliated, Arthur stormed to his own car, grumbling magical curses and nasty explicits under his breath, all directed at the same bloody American.

But, when six A.M. rolled around the next day, both easy-going American and tsundere Briton arrived at the same spot they had met the day earlier, just as promised.

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**_Oh, and please vote in my poll~! :D_**


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